


Nothing but You

by infernalandmortal



Series: Memori Drabbles [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, really just based off a theory sorry, there's three instances of swearing here so brace yourselves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-14 00:39:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9148984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infernalandmortal/pseuds/infernalandmortal
Summary: What Murphy wants and what Murphy does are almost never the same thing.(Emori is dying.  Murphy hates Clarke for it.  Set in season 4.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> So after I went on a massive ramble on my Tumblr about whether or not Emori would die this season, this fic popped into my head at random. So...here I am.

What Murphy wants and what Murphy does are often two different things.

He wants to kill Clarke, wants to torture her slowly, make her burn and break and feel every miserable thing that he felt since he landed on the ground.  He wants to make her see that her  _ one single fucking choice  _ in the City of Light has now turned his entire world into hell.

That’s what he wants but that’s not what he does.

He runs to Emori, curled up in the corner, her blood staining the pristine floor.  He ignores Clarke in favor of helping her sit up. He studies the boils and radiation burn on her face and arms and swats Clarke’s hand away when she tries to help.

“You have no right,” is the only thing he says and his voice is angrily calm in the quiet room.  “You have no right to touch her.”

From the way she backs up, he knows she got the message.

“John?” Her voice is a crackling whisper.  Her eyes are bloodshot and teary and when she meets his eyes he sees fear.

He rests his hand on her cheek, telling himself to be gentle, wiping the anger from his face.  It’s for Clarke, not Emori.  “You’re okay,” he murmurs, resting their foreheads together.

He feels her quirk an eyebrow.  “I thought you promised never to lie to me,” she murmurs.  There’s still mischief in her voice.  It makes Murphy want to cry. Or hit something.

“You will be.” He says vehemently, like a prayer, like he believes it.  Behind him, Clarke lets out a shaky breath.

* * *

What Murphy wants and what Murphy does are often two different things.

He wants to stay awake every hour, watch the rise and fall of her chest while she sleeps, count Clarke’s pacing steps.  He wants to talk to Emori, run his fingers over her badass hand and kiss her once or twice.  Better yet, he wants to go back to the way things were: the two of them in the woods stealing and hiding and making their own lives for each other.

That’s what he wants but it’s not what he has.

He wakes every time she stirs, comforts her every time she vomits blood and chokes on her own tears.  She hates to cry but can’t stop it so he holds her and lets her squeeze his wrist until it hurts.

“I’m going to die,” she states in that matter-of-fact way she has and his entire body goes numb because he knows she’s right and can’t let go.  He doesn’t say anything in response.  He can’t see his face but he knows he must look stricken.  Emori smiles sadly, reaches up to run her thumb over his lips.  “At least it’s not a knife or gun.”

“That would be quicker,” he counters to her appeasement, not wanting to be soothed.  He wants to steep in his anger, wants to use it to rip the world to shreds.

When she falls asleep again and Clarke disappears, he looks up at the ceiling and prays to anyone listening, asking  _ why did the only good thing I’ve ever had have to go too? _

* * *

What Murphy wants and what Murphy does are often two different things.

He knows Clarke can’t help, knows that there’s no cure for this but he still tries.  He shouts at her until his throat is raw and aching and she lets him.  She stands there, horror on her face and guilt in her eyes and he lets every hateful thing inside of him spill out in a tidal wave of rage.

When he’s done, he turns his back on her.  He leans over Emori’s shuddering body and passes a hand over her clammy face.

Her eyes tell him that she knows it’s the end.  “I’ll miss you,” she whispers.  Her lips tremble and Murphy couldn’t possibly care less about anything other than kissing her, tasting her one last time.

When they pull apart, she grins. It's painful for her - he can see the grimace in her eyes - but her infectious smile lights up the sterile room. “I love you, John,” she tells him. 

It occurs to him that maybe she's relieved to see the end. Maybe her shoulders are too tired to bear the weight of the house of pain she carries and she's ready to be finished. 

It's that thought that helps him let her go. 

“I love you too,” he whispers. Her last breath is a laugh. 

* * *

What Murphy wants and what Murphy does are often two different things.

But this time, they're not. 

When the others let them out of quarantine, he locks himself in an abandoned room and won't come out for anything. In the eerie quiet, he hears Emori. He hears her voice, the rise and fall of her tone as she switches from English to whatever other language she could speak. He imagines her hovering at his shoulder, watching with curious eyes the way she did in the Flamekeeper’s temple. 

They stop bothering him after a while. Bellamy threatened to break down the door but Murphy ignored him and eventually he went away. He'd talk to Miller through the door but only long enough to tell him to fuck off. 

Clarke didn't even bother coming. Murphy was glad. 

“Clarke’s got a habit of offing the people we love, huh?”

Murphy is surprised to hear Raven’s voice. He hears her slide down to a seated position, her back presumably against the door. He hears her brace scrape against the floor and is met with an unexpected wave of guilt.

Maybe Emori has taught him how to feel after all. 

“I'm sorry,” he says softly. He doesn't know what he's sorry for: Finn or her leg or something else that was also his fault. 

“Open the door, Murphy.” Her voice is almost gentle. “Don't kill yourself over this. She wouldn't want that.”

Murphy wants to tell her that she was wrong, that Raven wouldn't know what Emori wanted, but he know she’s right.  She's patronizing but she's right.

He feels the rough skin of her badass hand under his fingers.  He tastes her when he licks his lips.  He breathes in and out, praying and waiting and trying not to give up.  When he opens the door, the click of the lock sounds like a gunshot. 


End file.
